


The Fragments and the Accidents

by Raletha



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Community: gw500, Ending Relationship, Erotica, Future Fic, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, Post canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raletha/pseuds/Raletha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quatre broke up with Trowa several months ago and now struggles with the aftermath of that decision. Written for the prompt "identity" on gw500. Circa 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fragments and the Accidents

**AC 203**

Raberba and Winner I remove with my Italian leather shoes. CEO of Winner Enterprises Incorporated comes off with my tie. As I lay aside my mohair blend Armani suit, so do I lay aside the son of Charles Winner. Wealthy philanthropist and patron of the arts depart with my Savile Row shirt, and the golden boy of Intersphere business is stripped away with my fine cashmere socks. Finally, with a snort of amusement I divest myself of my designer underwear and my frivolous membership among Celebrity magazine's annual '50 Most Beautiful People'.

I stand naked for a time, simply to experience the gossamer caress of air on my bare skin. I close my eyes and let the fingers of my right hand fall to my stomach. The soldier I cannot remove. It is tattooed with indelible white on my living tissue. I find the scars with my fingertips and with each one traced, I briefly recall its acquisition. I consider the things I have gained and the things I have lost. I remember that these scars—the identity they represent is one of the few I have chosen for myself. It's masochistic, not just the choice and its consequences, but my continued silent reminders. In good conscience I cannot allow myself to forget.

Then I prepare myself to don another identity for the purpose of meeting with another memory. My ritual begins as close to my skin as possible. I shower quickly, using a bland white soap and a supermarket brand shampoo. Afterward, I shave with a disposable razor and put no styling products in my hair. My skin feels tight and dry; my hair slippery and ill behaved. It hangs in my face and pokes my eyelids as I bend to don cheap white briefs and cotton sport socks.

Faded jeans and a navy blue t-shirt follow. Cracked, worn, and dulled by multiple washings, the beer company's logo on the t-shirt is harsh under my palm as I smooth the front of the shirt over my chest. The colours—insipid yellow and watered green with a slash of pinkened red text—mock my gaze. I pick at the ragged edges of the plasticky fabric paint and collect a light fleece jacket from the accent chair near my bedroom door.

The jacket is a sickly salmon colour, and it banishes the healthy colour from my complexion. The polished and slender wood of the antique chair creaks when I perch on the edge of its upholstered seat to put on a pair of dirty gray and blue cross-trainers. I sit for a time, leaning my arms on my knees and stare at the sneakers. They're ugly, and I don't like the way they look on the ends of my legs. I hear myself sigh, and it takes another several breaths before I can convince my body to stand.

  


It's been nearly four months since Trowa moved out and four months to the day since I asked him to. It's a thirty-five minute walk to his apartment building, and though drizzle stipples the late spring evening, I am happy to walk the distance. The only detour I make is to purchase a baguette from Trowa's favourite bakery.

Alone and anonymous I walk. No one has yet recognised me like this (not even at the bakery), but I avoid eye contact with strangers nonetheless. This experience is still novel to me: walking the street as no one of consequence, bearing no name to which I answer. I like it. Were someone to approach me in conversation, I consider what tale of my imaginary life I may tell him: who I may chose to be, what persona I may adopt. That my hypothetical stranger will have no reason to suspect the deception—that he will believe my fabricated life—sends a guilty and giddy tremor through my gut.

It's a powerful realisation for me: this thing Trowa has understood about people his entire life, their basic gullibility. Some days as I walk in my disguise, I am tempted to waylay myself in a shop or cafe, strike up conversation with an unsuspecting individual, just to see how far I can draw his confidence. But I know my own conscience is overdeveloped. I know I won't do such a thing. It frightens me even as it intrigues me.

The fear—more than anything else—bothers me. It bothers me that I feel more timid now than I did at fifteen. Am I scared of who I am or of who I am not? Do I fear my own dreams now? My idealism then was certain. I harboured many doubts during the war, but I never questioned that my involvement was absolutely right. There were times I doubted the means by which I pursued my end, but I never doubted I was the tool. I even, at times, felt a sense of destiny about my role—about all of our roles.

Destiny? I was a naive and foolish child. My destiny is not so grand as I would wish it. Many may envy my position and power, but I have found no glamour in my work—and it is work. It is routine and monotony. It is barriers and stonewalling. It is manipulation and greed and Machiavellian politics. To think I came to my inheritance with optimism and dreams…ideals and energy.

And now? I don't know. Now I am uncertain of many things, some in which I never imagined my faith could fail. My thoughts resolve to seething static at this point. I haven't been able to reason past this place in my head. At what point did my faith fail? Was it a gradual demise or did it happen one night as I slept? Perhaps it was never real, its existence merely an illusion of the pride of my youth.

I sigh and reorient my attention outwards. It's pointless for me to dwell in the same places within my mind like this. It doesn't change anything, and thinking hasn't helped me find a solution. I always end up here, in a place of intractable feeling where reason no longer holds sway.

So I watch the other people on the street. Because of the drizzle there aren't many, and those who are out walk briskly, many with heads hunkered down into their collars or shrouded by hoods. Some have opened umbrellas although I do not, personally, find the drizzle that oppressive. It's barely more than a thick mist and there's little wind. The way it fuzzes out the edges of the landscape is soothing. I enjoy the dusk and the drizzle, the way it turns the streetscape into an impressionistic haze of blurred lights and smeared reflections.

And before I even realise enough time has passed, my legs are slowing, and I'm standing without the main door of Trowa's apartment building. I step into the sheltered stoop and ring the buzzer by his number. I hear the door unlock—he is expecting me after all—and step into the narrow foyer.

I pass the mailboxes, my eyes automatically pausing on his, for what reason I know not. It's just another cataloguing of something in Trowa's life apart from me. I imagine him pausing every day to unlock the little metal door to peer inside for his mail. I wonder who writes to him other than Catherine. If anyone else does.

I tuck the bread under my arm, put my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and forgo the elevator in favour of trudging up the four flights of stairs to Trowa's floor. The building is about a decade old and belongs to a period when, because of the Alliance domination on L-4, arts like architecture were neglected. The building is all right angles and function. The stairs are covered in a non-skid black surface, and the walls are white. Functional steel sconces, which look like cages, house frosted glass shades and fluorescent light bulbs.

I come to Trowa's floor and pass through a swinging door to an area with a dark grey-flecked carpet. It's worn down the centre of the corridor, so I walk slightly on the left side past three doors and stop at Trowa's. I knock and turn the doorknob. It's open, so I let myself in.

"Hi, it's me," I call.

"Kitchen," Trowa calls back.

I duck through the opening from the foyer to the dining room. The dining room light is off, but the kitchen's is on. Trowa's in the kitchen. He bends to look at me between the bottom of the hanging cupboards and the serving bar. "Hi," he says.

I give him a small wave and take off my jacket. I pull out a dining chair and drape the garment over the back, making sure the wet surface doesn't touch the faux-wood of the chair. The dining table is covered completely with Trowa's work: notebooks, textbooks, his computer, magazines, pencils, pens, highlighters, an empty mug, a dirty plate. His apartment only has one bedroom, and since he prefers not to study in his bedroom, his dining room is his study. We always eat on our laps in the living room.

I set down the bread and take a seat on one of the stools by the bar. "So what are we having?"

Trowa scoops a handful of coarsely diced tomatoes from his chopping board and dumps them on top of some lettuce in a large bowl. "Broccoli and potato gratin," he says, "and salad.

"Fancy," I say.

"Cathy made it," he says.

"Of course." When Catherine visits Trowa, she leaves him a freezer full of things he can reheat in the oven. I spot the plastic covered casserole dish on the counter by the stove hob.

"Are you hungry?"

"I had a late lunch."

"I ordered a movie."

"All right," I say and nod. Trowa turns out the kitchen light and lets me precede him to his living room.

Catherine's touch is here as well. It's the only room in Trowa's apartment with real, consistent care in its decor. When she visited last month, she made it her mission to make Trowa's apartment more like a home and less like a human storage and maintenance unit (her words, not mine). I didn't actually see Catherine then; Trowa told me about her visit after she left and we resumed our weekly dinners.

So the room is comfortable. The wide couch is soft and welcoming, upholstered in synthetic, nut brown leather. It started out stained and floral, but Cathy had it re-covered. There's a thick rug in a contemporary pattern of orange, brown, and cream. Upon the rug is a sturdy, genuine wood coffee table. It's battered and water stained, but after a thick coat of varnish, the damage adds a rugged charm. A pair of bronze coloured floor lamps with elegant cream shades sit either side the couch. One illuminates a tall silk plant; the other casts its light on Trowa's reading chair: it is the only piece of furniture he had in the room before Catherine's visit. His television used to sit on the floor. Now it has a glass shelved unit to house it and assorted other electronics.

I like this room. It's unpretentious and speaks of care rather than contrivance. I wrote to Catherine to tell her this. The letter I received in return reproached me for having hurt Trowa and advised me that it would be best for all concerned if we didn't keep seeing each other. I should let him go completely. The lingering friendship makes it harder for him to move on, she told me.

I didn't write back to her, nor did I tell Trowa of her letter. If he doesn't wish for our continued friendship, he can tell me himself. I sit on the couch and watch him fiddle with the television. Of course we're still friends. How could we not be? I cannot imagine my life without Trowa a part of it in some significant way. There's been too much between us for either of us to walk away.

The movie starts, and Trowa seats himself beside me on the sofa. I try to watch the film for a while, but it does not hold my attention. The action sequences fly past my eyes in a blur and the characters seem empty caricatures.

I shift a little on the couch next to Trowa. My sock has slouched down to my sneaker and the skin of my ankle has been sticking to the leather, but that really is the least of my discomfort. Trowa and I haven't sat this close to one another since we broke up. His thigh is only an inch or two from my bent knee. He's not looking at me though; he's looking at the television. He's watching the movie. I haven't been able to follow the plot; I'm too much inside my own head.

Normally Trowa sits in his reading chair, and I stretch out on his sofa with the afghan Catherine knitted for him. Tonight his cats, Max and Emil, have claimed his chair, and that's why he's sitting next to me. I can smell his cologne. It's strange because he didn't use to wear it, but I'm sure the rich, citrusy scent is cologne.

He's freshly shaved too. He must have done it right before I arrived because he doesn't have a full day's roughness on his chin. We're sitting close enough I can tell.

"Are you hungry yet?" he asks me, and I start from my trance. He's caught me staring at him, but he doesn't make a comment.

"Sure," I say after I swallow, and he turns the television off.

"Were you watching it?"

"Not really."

"Me neither."

I smile at him, and he smiles back but looks away quickly. We are still friends, aren't we?

I follow after him and lean on the bar while I watch him in the kitchen. He takes the plastic wrap off the top of the thawed casserole and puts it in the preheated oven. The oven is directly opposite the bar where I'm leaning and I get a good view when he bends over.

He's wearing new jeans. The denim is dark and vivid, and I wonder when he got them. They fit him perfectly, fitting close around his backside, and a little loosely around his legs. I love the way the material folds at the top of the backs of his thighs when he stands, and pulls taut over his rear when he bends. I watch him as long as the view is presented, and softly sigh my disappointment when he turns back around.

I shouldn't still be looking at him that way, but I smile anyway.

"I'm moving back to Earth," he says, glancing at me askance as he opens a drawer and removes a corkscrew.

I stare. What? I can't process his words. My brain refuses to hear them, to understand them. I say nothing, and I can't tell what expression has frozen onto my face.

"There're some good graduate programs in the new E.U., and you know, Cathy's there. I'd like to see more of her, and it's expensive—well, expensive for us—to travel back and forth."

I… I can't object can I? No, of course I cannot. If I did it would be selfish, and goodness knows how selfish I've been with Trowa. Catherine is there. Catherine is family. She loves him.

"Oh, okay," I say at last. Trowa slides a glass of wine across the laminate bar to me. The bouquet wafting up tells me it's an Earth Merlot. I wonder where Trowa got it. He knows I like Earth wines, but they're expensive.

I turn cold. Is this a farewell? Is he saying goodbye to me _tonight_?

My eyes burn and the sides of my throat seem to be sticking to each other, but I have no right to cry. I take a sip of the wine, and it is glorious.

"The…uh…the wine is very good, Trowa." My voice shudders over the words, and I nearly don't get past the 'r' in his name. Even I don't hear the 'o', and the final 'a' is more of a sigh than a syllable.

He looks at me. He just stands there and looks at me for several heartbeats, and then his lips flatten into a grimace. "Is that all you have to say to me?"

"Trowa, I don-"

He shoves a hand through his hair but turns away before I can glimpse his face. "I'm glad you like the wine, Quatre," he says to the wall.

Silence blankets us. Despite the hum and rattle from the oven and the rumble of the fridge, the lack of speech is a tangible quiet, thick like cotton wool. I feel like someone injected Novocain into my tongue, and even another sip of wine doesn't help me recover my voice.

Trowa doesn't move; he stands facing away from me, and I can't even tell if he's breathing. I turn to go back to the living room, to give Trowa his space, but I bump one of the bar stools and it skids across the faux-wood floor with a loud groan. I wince and pause for a second, holding my breath. Trowa still doesn't move.

I take soft steps back to the living room and stand in the doorway. Maybe I should leave? But I'd have to walk back to the dining room, past the bar to get my jacket, and at that moment doing that seems far more intimidating than any board meeting or mobile suit battle I've ever been in.

So instead of fetching my jacket and leaving, I head over to Trowa's chair and kneel beside it. Max and Emil are still curled together, sound asleep. They were both strays, and Trowa adopted them as adult cats on the grounds that even people who adopt cats prefer to have kittens. The two didn't like each other very much at first. It took Trowa a while to help them feel like family.

Emil's got some sort of Oriental ancestry, Siamese perhaps. He's long-limbed and long faced but short haired—pale cream with ginger points and blue eyes. Max looks like a street cat; he's a sturdy Mackerel Tabby, big boned and a little overweight, and although he's gentle, he won't tolerate his tummy being rubbed. I realise I'll miss seeing Trowa's cats.

I alternate between stroking Emil and Max. Emil wakes up to give me a squinty look of approval and a tiny lick on the back of my hand. Eventually he begins to purr and returns to his doze. Max wraps a paw over his face and squeezes himself into a tighter bundle.

"Quatre?"

My heart stops for a moment, and I have to swallow hard before I answer with a rough, soft, "Yeah?" I sound like I've been crying, but I haven't, and I don't want to Trowa to think I have been.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you like that."

"I certainly wasn't expecting it." I say while I scratch Emil behind his ears, and he adopts a rather goofy expression. Despite myself, I smile at the cat.

"I know you weren't. I thought it'd be different. I'd be able to, you know, work the conversation around to it."

"It's all right."

"Yeah." I barely hear Trowa's footsteps, but I feel the air displaced by his movement as he comes to stand by me. I turn to look at his legs. He bends his knees and falls to a squat beside me, and I have to look at his face. I can't read his expression very well. He's still good at shutting me out like that. I'm sure he's unhappy though. I wonder if he felt like crying too.

"Quatre…" he says again, and puts a hand on my shoulder. He leans in toward me, pushing his hair back from his face and tucking it behind his ear as he does so. Some strands fall back into his face, but I can see him clearly, his whole, exquisite face. He has one hand on my shoulder, one hand still in his hair, behind one ear. I can feel his exhalation. I see his pupils dilate; his lips tense and relax. His gaze drops to my mouth before returning to my eyes. He's questioning me, silently asking permission.

I don't turn away or lean back; I won't deny him. He kisses me softly. It's not demanding at all. I could easily pull away. Maybe I should. I don't want to say no, but this is too complex and confusing. It feels irresponsible to give in to this.

His kiss is so sweet, so tender, even more than I remember. I think we'd actually stopped kissing. We're kissing now. I'm a little passive, and he's just moving his lips against mine. There's no tongue, no pushing forward, no taking, only a tentative caress of lips against lips. Slowly I start to move with him. I pull my hand away from the cats and touch his shoulder with that hand. My other hand rests on my thigh.

Trowa's hand in his hair moves from his to mine. He slides his fingers against my scalp, traces the edge of my ear with one finger and then rests his fingers against the back of my neck. He's still not exerting any pressure on me, and I can't tell if this is all he wants. Just the kissing? Or…if this is to be our last time, is there more?

There is more that I want, I understand. But do I dare? Do I dare ask? Do I dare press? He owes me nothing, how can I presume to ask for more?

He pulls back from me slowly. Our lips cling together as if they don't wish to part. Trowa is breathing faster now. "Come to bed with me?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, but he doesn't stammer or falter.

Then I wish in a fleeting moment of vanity that I'd dressed for the occasion. Trowa knew. He bought wine and wore cologne and shaved. I'm wearing my ugliest incognito garb; my skin and hair haven't been treated well at all. It's not worthy of him. I'm not worthy of this moment.

But I can't deny him this either, or how I want it for myself too. "Yeah, okay" I whisper, and we stand together. I follow him down the short, darkened hallway to his bedroom.

He doesn't turn on the light, but instead moves straight to the bed and stands next to it. I wonder at his other preparation that there aren't any candles or romantic music, but then, Trowa's never been sentimental like that. It wouldn't make this any less final, and romantic adornments won't make this more memorable for either of us. I think even Trowa will have trouble forgetting.

I'm not sure what else to do, so I begin to undress. The sooner I can get out of these horrible clothes, the better. The shoes come off first, then the t-shirt. Just as I've got the thing over my head, with the tatty beer logo scratching my face, he touches me. I gasp; I didn't hear him move toward me. His fingers map my pectorals, brush my nipples, and stutter down my ribs and stomach to my jeans.

I haul the shirt off and toss it aside so I can see him. He takes over undressing me, though I hate for him to handle these clothes. I don't think the jeans were even clean on.

He touches me as he draws them down my legs. Lightly, here and there, his fingertips trace little squiggles, circles, or squares on my legs—a triangle on my thigh, a curlicue behind my knee. He tugs my jeans to my ankles and pulls off my shoes. I let him, until he's still fully dressed and I'm standing in the gloom in just my underwear. The only light is what's crept down the hall from the living area, and it's chilly and yellow. We both cast long shadows, and most of Trowa's room is shrouded in grey.

I'm surprised that I'm not fully hard yet, but I'm not. My cock is still soft enough to be nestled against my balls. Trowa's on his knees, not looking up at me. He's looking directly at my groin. He touches the bulge, strokes it through the cotton—it feels… God, it _feels_. His touch, after so long without experiencing it, thrills me. It's electricity and fire and water and wind all at once. My eyelids are slipping down, but I manage to keep my eyes open so I can watch Trowa, and Trowa, he watches my erection surge beneath his hand.

I guess I've never been that soft and this naked with him at the same time.

He's so quiet and unhurried. It's like he's watching my response out of nothing more than curiosity. I still can't read his expression, and I won't try reading him any other way. Finally, he seems satisfied, and he pulls my briefs down. I step out of them, kick them aside, and Trowa stands without touching me. He moves away again, toward the bed, but hesitates.

"Are you sure you want this, Quatre?"

Naked and aroused, it takes me a moment to process his question. He's asking me this now? I don't answer him immediately. Maybe it's a rhetorical question. Maybe he's actually questioning himself. Maybe he's doubting his own decision…about inviting me to his bed, about kissing me, about telling me he's leaving. About deciding to leave.

"This is our last chance, isn't it?" I say at last. Without my costume, my confidence returns quickly. I take a step toward Trowa, and another, until I can touch him. Between my legs my cock is heavy with need. I want him.

He nods and swallows and stares at my face without blinking. I close my eyes and kiss him. I'm more forceful than he was before. He asked me for this, and I will give it to him. To us both. I also want to show him what he's giving up, what he's leaving. Even though deep down, I know that it was never his choice to give it up. I denied it to him. I won't deny him now. I can't.

For me, kissing Trowa is an instinct. It has been since the very first time I kissed him, though it's never been like that with anyone else. With other men—and women—I've kissed, there's always been that element of fumbling novelty—do they prefer to kiss more with their lips or their tongue? Do they have a certain rhythm, or is it random? 

With Trowa, it's as natural as breathing. And so it is now. I don't have to think about it. Our lips part and our tongues find each other in an easy give and take. When I reach to lick his gums and teeth, his tongue slips back. When he closes his lips around my tongue to suckle it, I fall still. When we need to breath, it simply happens.

I feel a familiar and much missed heat burning in my belly as the kiss continues. Trowa's jeans are rough against my erection as I press against him. Their rivets are little points of cold against my hip. His belt buckle digs into my belly, but I grind against him anyway to show him my desire. I'm know I'm smearing pre-ejaculate onto the dark denim. Normally I'd be more careful of soiling his clothes, but this will be a mark to remind him of me in the morning. His hands slowly come to rest on my hips, and then—more boldly—venture around and cup my buttocks.

I still sense uncertainty in the way he's handling me. He's moving slowly and tentatively, and it makes me feel as if I'm not really touching or kissing him. I'm making love to a projection of Trowa—the rest of him, his consciousness and his self are somewhere else, somewhere remote. Maybe already back on Earth.

For once Trowa's made a decision, he's very fatalistic about it. I fear for a moment that he's not doing this for himself. He's only doing it for me, because he knows that despite everything, I still want him. I always want him. I may not be able to love him as he deserves or live with him, but no day passes that I don't ache to have him in my arms like this.

No, not quite like this. There's still too much between us. I move back from him, introducing enough space between us that I can pull his shirt free from his jeans. I break the kiss so I can focus on his face. He lets his hands fall to his sides while I unbutton his shirt. He's too passive, and I'm uncertain what else to do for him. Is there something I should say?

 _Does_ he want this? And if he doesn't, do I still? Is that what he was asking me before?

"Trowa?" I ask. We seem to be saying one another's names a lot this evening. It makes me wonder just how many different things a name can mean for us.

I remove my hands from him, and we stand there looking at each other again in the gloom. It's ridiculous. You'd think we'd never done this before. Trowa's like a stranger to me right now, and I'm not sure how to recall more familiarity in his expression. At least it's not the first time for that either. I remember when he didn't remember me at all.

He lowers his gaze and his hair falls in his face. He slips his shirt from his shoulders, lets it slide down his elbows before he draws each arm from the sleeves. It's done slowly and almost shyly—a modest little strip tease. His shoulders and arms are so beautiful—refined and strong and perfectly proportioned. His entire upper body is really—sculpted and polished and perfected by his dedication.

I try to take a snapshot of this moment for my memory—my Trowa, while he's letting himself be perhaps mine—standing in the shadows, his head bowed and turned to the side in seeming bashfulness, his shirt, light against the dark, sliding down to bare his shoulders, his deltoids and biceps, and then hanging in artful asymmetry from his elbows before he removes it completely and it falls to the floor.

Words accumulate in my throat, but I can't tell what they are, and I'm afraid if I actually speak now, something I don't understand will come out, and I won't be able to tell if I mean it or not. 

But the pressure needs to be relieved, so I say something I've said before. It is something I always mean: "You're so beautiful."

He tilts his head and looks at me, and he smiles—just a little. I take his hands and lean in to kiss his collarbone, working my way to the hollow at the base of his throat and then up the side of his neck, following his pulse with my lips. The scent of his cologne is intense, the taste of his skin incendiary. I nip at his throat, and he lets his head fall back for me. I feel him shudder. I drag my lips along his jaw to his ear and take the lobe between my lips to suck it between my teeth.

Trowa sighs, and some of the tension abandons his body with another deep, full body shiver. I touch his chest with my hands flattened; I draw them across the hard swell of his pectorals; his nipples stiffen and tickle my taut palms. It makes my breath catch, the way his body responds so quickly to me, the way he feels under my hands. I want to take one of those hard little nipples in my mouth. I want to bite it and suckle it and rub it with my lips until he's panting and whimpering and pushing at my shoulders to encourage me to move lower.

I don't indulge myself, but I am sorely tempted to make him beg. It's the most erotic thing I've experienced with him. When his calm is betrayed and he cries out in needy pleasure—cries out to _me_. Sometimes I think I've enjoyed it a little too much, but I've kept my pleasure at his neediness my own little secret. I've always sensed it embarrassed him to be so wanton with me. To be so wanton at all perhaps? I don't actually know if Trowa has had any lovers aside from me. I don't even know if he's ever desired someone else. I've never asked him, and he never volunteered the information.

He coaxes me toward the bed, then pulls me down with him and pushes his hands between us to his belt. I hover over him and watch him unfasten his jeans and haul them and his briefs off. I don't give him any extra space when he folds up his legs to pull them free from his feet, and his knees bump my chest. I just watch him, my gaze hungry for the rest of the beautiful body that never leaves my dreams, neither day nor night.

Once Trowa's naked, he reaches up for me, pulls me down again, and then rolls us over. It takes me by surprise, his sudden seizing of initiative. His full weight presses down on me, his cock digs into my stomach, and his hands, wrapped around my biceps, hold me firmly against the mattress. Breathing is suddenly hard, I feel like my chest is being compressed, and he's kissing me now, openmouthed and deeply. His tongue tip curls behind my top teeth to flick and tickle over the roof of my mouth; I can't find anything to breathe but the air from his lungs.

And finally, I let me lose myself. Or at least, I let slip that part of myself that harries my peace of mind and questions even the simplest perception or thought. It's the part of me that keeps me trapped within my own intellect, too distant from the world of sense and sensation. The transition from mind to body always takes me by surprise. There's an intensity of being embodied I always forget between instances of sexual acts. Especially those with Trowa.

The taut, dry friction of his belly against my erection forces me to remember that I am—despite my long days of gentility and refinement, of silk and champagne, of mergers and takeovers—an animal, evolved with but a solitary underlying purpose. Even after all these millennia of human civilisation, instinct is a potent force. I thrust up against the grinding of Trowa's hips and suck his tongue deep into my mouth.

Naked and (for my part, willfully) nameless for now, my ego is shed with my ratty clothes. I am nothing more than a man, any man, aroused, sweating, panting, and pursuing pleasure with his chosen partner. I hear a low growl in the back on my throat, and grip Trowa tightly to me. I want to lose myself in him. My hands slide down his back, already slick with perspiration, and massage the top of his buttocks.

Trowa breaks the kiss abruptly. "Quatre," he murmurs, lifting his upper body from me. Hearing my name returns some of my usual mind state, even as the sound of Trowa's voice, roughened and crackling with his desire threatens to overtake my reason further. When he says my name in times like this, I feel as if _he_ is naming me anew after having stripped me of my name. It's like I've never heard my name before. It's something new and clean and freshly mine, only mine, and it is me. Me. It's been a long time since I heard my name spoken thus.

He touches my face—my cheek just below my cheekbone, and pushes some of my floppy hair from my face. I meet his eyes, dark in the dark, and fill my lungs with fresh air. The breath steadies me, and gradually our hips slow and cease in their movements. My head clears a little. I realise that I don't want to rush this. Neither does Trowa, I can see.

But though I do not want to rush, I don't want to linger too much either. That is to say, I don't want to _make love_. I don't wish for the absent candles; I don't want murmured endearments and tender touches.

I reach between us with one hand and grab his cock, giving it a tug that makes him swear. "What do you want?" I ask him. I give another slow pull of my hand. Trowa closes his eyes and bites his lips closed over his moan.

His eyes open a sliver. "This," he says, and I see what I have always thought of as his 'sex smile' bend his lips, slow as molasses. It's beautiful and intimate. He leans on one arm and reaches between us with his other hand, fumbling to take my cock alongside his and threading his fingers with mine. He watches my face while I let him set an infuriatingly moderate rhythm of our joined hands wrapped round our aligned erections.

I'm an idiot for ever having given this up.

I close my eyes and breathe. Trowa's cologne, intensified by his body heat, swirls in the air and fills my lungs. It smells like arousal. Heated pleasure grows in my loins and sends tremors of anticipation through my limbs. The velvet friction of our cocks rubbing against each other within the cage of our interlaced fingers, it's good, but it's not all Trowa wants, for he releases us and twists away to the nightstand.

I touch him while he retrieves some lubricant, sliding my fingers along the sides of his waist and thighs, tracing the organic patterns of his musculature.

"You want me to fuck you, or—?" I ask. The words come out lazy and low.

"You can fuck me first."

"Who fucks you second?" I tease. The joking comes so easily—automatically—the words are out before I can catch myself. For just an instant it feels like it used to feel being with Trowa. Easy and fun. Simple joy and pleasure shared, no complexity, no doubts—no fear of dependence.

He laughs, and—damn it—I laugh too. It feels _wonderful_ , and much of the tension I'd been harbouring eases.

Trowa sets the lubricant on the mattress within my reach and straddles my chest. My breath hastens and my salivary glands rouse with the knowledge of what he's asking me for. With the shadowed shape of his erection swaying just before my face, I moisten my lips, and take him in hand. He's so thick, so hot, so hard. So perfect. I look up his body to his face, but his back is to the light and his hair veils his expression from any reflected illumination. All I can determine is that he's looking down at me. I'm sure he's smiling, so I smile too. I lift my head and tug him closer. I curl the tip of my tongue across his cockhead and taste slick salt.

Trowa lets out a shuddering groan and leans forward, bracing himself on the headboard. I rub my lips against him, and Trowa takes a deep breath. Tightening my fist, I drag it to the base of his cock to fully expose the sensitive crown. I place a slow kiss right at its tip and then suck, drawing his length as deeply into my mouth as I can. The angle's not ideal, so I grasp Trowa's hips and encourage him to move with me. Ever considerate, he only thrusts shallowly while I suck and lash his cock with my tongue. I fold one arm behind my head for support and drag the fingers of my other hand across his rear. I stroke between his buttocks, easing my fingers between them until I'm lightly fingering his anus and perineum.

I let his cock slip from my mouth and coax his hips further forward so I can reach his balls. I tilt my head back and lave them with my tongue. Noisily, I suck and slurp at their heavy shape. Trowa's muttering nonsense at me, and the headboard shakes and creaks from the grip he's got on it.

I tug his hips forward again and move my attention behind his balls. He names me again with a wondering whisper. He sounds a little surprised, but he shifts his weight above me in accommodation. I grip his buttocks and spread them widely.

He smells and tastes like sweat and soap and sex: like so many of my memories of making love to him. I'm most reminded of the first time I did this to him. And though I know little else about Trowa's sexual past, I do know I was the first (and only) one he's allowed to do this to him. He was uncomfortable about it at first, but I was patient, persistent, and dedicated to his enjoyment. Now he loves it, the feel of my mouth on him in such a taboo fashion, though he rarely admits it. Even now, he goes a little quieter than usual, but I can tell by his breathing and his body heat that he's enraptured.

I lap repeatedly, from his tightening balls to his anus, with a flat, wide tongue until all I can taste is my own saliva and his thighs are trembling. I close my lips over the tense muscle and suck at it, flicking and pressing my tongue tip against its centre. Trowa swears softly and jerks against my face; then his entrance spasms and dilates, drawing my tongue deeper. I arch my neck, wriggle and thrust my tongue, glutting on the whole experience of tasting Trowa so intimately, of feeling him respond so eagerly to me. I suck and lick and kiss, until panting, Trowa pulls away and gasps, "God, Quatre…enough…"

I nearly give him a cheeky grin and ask him if he'll miss me much, but that would be too barbed a jest, I think—for both of us.

He reaches down and rubs my lips with his thumb. "You're too good at that," he murmurs.

"Too good, huh?" I say with a chuckle. Maybe he will miss me. At least he… and I don't get to finish that thought, for Trowa leans back on his knees and reaches back for my cock. He jerks me roughly, and I arch off the mattress, swearing and blaspheming my surprise at the sudden onslaught.

Quickly, I fumble for the lubricant and squirt too much of it into one hand. With trembling and impatient fingers I smear it between his buttocks. He releases my cock long enough to grasp my slickened hand. He scrapes some of the excess onto his fingers and lubes my cock with it. Then he scoots back and lifts one foot to the bed. Balanced between his foot and knee, he half squats, half kneels as he guides my length into him.

There's a long moment of resistance, and then the sweet, abrupt yielding, and finally tight, silken heat consumes me. I close my eyes and let sensation take me. Being inside Trowa feels as amazing as it ever did, and there's no awkwardness or stuttering as he finds our rhythm. When he lifts and rocks his hips, I pitch up and grind against him.

And suddenly, it's too much. My nerves are flayed raw. It feels too good: sharp and scintillating, better than I've either remembered or imagined. I feel my orgasm accumulating already, but I don't want it to be over yet. Something this good shouldn't have to end. I tighten the grip I have on his forearm and thigh, and try to distract myself with thoughts of the coming audit of the accounting department. Then I make the mistake of opening my eyes.

Trowa…he's…he's gorgeous, all blue grey gradients and shadow, backlit with yellow light, and he's moving—of course—but there's movement, and then there's sexual movement. Trowa's grace and strength pervades everything he does, but it is here he's at his most extraordinary, here in our private space and time.

I can make out the gleam of his sweat highlighting the flexing of his muscles. He tosses his hair from his face, though I can't make out his expression well. All I can tell is that his eyes are closed and his mouth is open and slack. I'm full of heat and want and building sensation. And emotion. For an instant, I almost tell him, 'I love you'. But then, it's easy to think something like that when I'm buried to the hilt in his ass and he's riding me like I'm a mechanical bull. "Ah, fuck," I say instead through gritted teeth.

He cracks open his eyes. "You're close?"

"Yeah…"

He drops to both knees, taking me more solidly within him. He rolls his hips faster and pinches my nipples hard. And that's it for me. The extra stimulation brings my orgasm roaring through my body. I arch against him, crying out, thrusting hard with each exquisite surge of my ejaculation, and digging my fingers into his hipbones.

When I'm limp and spent, he lifts himself from me, breathing heavily, and lies next to me silently for a time. Maybe I do love him, I consider. The feelings linger after my orgasm fades. But even if it's true, I've already convinced myself that it—my brand of caring—is less than what he deserves, maybe even less than what he needs. I want to know what would be sufficient, what that would feel like. But I feel empty, like one of the characters from the movie we watched.

Beside me Trowa stirs and I remember he hasn't come yet. "Hey," I say, and I squeeze his hand.

He kisses my cheek. "Turn over," he murmurs against my ear. His voice is warm with affection and his unrelieved sexual want.

I kiss him deeply before I comply; I take his mouth and his air, and leave him even more breathless than he was. Trowa passes me a pillow and I lie face down with it beneath my hips. The lube on Trowa's fingers makes me start, for it is cold. But it warms quickly enough, and I relax again. Despite my recent orgasm, my anticipation grows.

Post-orgasm I accommodate Trowa's fingers fairly easily, and he remembers just how to touch me in all my favourite places. He jiggles his fingertips against the sensitive inner ring of my sphincter muscles, and I gasp and shiver. He pushes a little deeper and twists his hand to rub his knuckles against my prostate, and I moan and shake. I relish the burn of my stretching muscles when he eases a third finger into me. I can feel his fingers flutter inside my belly, moving against one another and against me, and I love that he's touching me so intimately. My cock throbs against the pillow, and Trowa begins fucking me with his fingers.

He starts slowly at first, and the friction is dizzying. I spread my legs as far as I can; then I reach back and grasp my buttocks to pull them further apart for Trowa. By the time his strokes have sped and he's moving his whole arm against me, the heel of his hand smacking my skin, I'm whimpering, squirming and senseless, begging for his cock.

He withdraws his hand gently, and I hear the snap of a lid. His hands return to smear more cool gel around and inside my entrance. He pushes into me with both thumbs, his fingertips skate across my knuckles as he works his thumbs against my anus, tugging the muscle open and then sliding his cock along my slick cleft till the blunt head rests between his thumbs, nestled against my loosened hole.

I hiss my pleasure as he pushes in gradually, drawing out both his digits and the sensation of initial penetration with complete clarity. As he edges deeper, my awareness dims at the edges. I'm full and stretched and every nerve is attuned to the incomparable closeness of having Trowa embedded in my body like this.

He lifts my hips and I rise to my hands and knees; my fresh erection bobs and sways beneath my belly. Gripping my pelvis hard, Trowa hauls me back against him as he presses forward. Each ever-deepening thrust sizzles up my spine and seems to lodge in my throat, forcing out each of my helpless, pleasured cries. He likes for me to make noise when he takes me, so I don't hold back.

Now he's pulling me up from all fours to my knees and leaning back, forcing my to arch my back and reach behind my head to grab his neck. I lose my grip soon though, as he falls back to his knees and shoulders, his spine arched over his folded legs and feet. He holds my pelvis and I his elbows. Even like this, he fucks me hard, and I meet his surging hips thrust for thrust. His grunts of pleasure and exertion thrill me. I reach between our legs, below where our bodies are joined and fondle his balls with my palm. He reaches round my waist and grabs my erection.

I lose all sense of time as he repeatedly lunges into my body and pumps my cock. Then he moves, pushing me up and forward again, following me back up to his knees without losing our connection. He shoves into me harder now, faster now, his breathing coming in whines and whimpers. I take over masturbating myself, and Trowa comes with a shuddering exhalation of relief. He stays hard enough to keep grinding into me until I've come as well, my orgasm intensified by the full pressure of him still inside me.

I slump to my elbows and my knees buckle after he withdraws. Despite the sweat and semen, we soon end up entangled again, Trowa on his back, with me draped over him. I let my eyes close, feel his heartbeat and start to float in post-sex lassitude. I wonder if he'll mind if I ask to stay the night. I'm not sure I could walk as far as home. I could take a taxi. I stifle a yawn against the back of my hand. Trowa slides a hand down my spine. I should say something to him, but I don't know what exactly to say. I'm not sure how I feel, and I'm afraid to ask him how he feels.

"I love you," he says softly, his declaration guileless as it has always been.

And my fear is realised. I don't reply but instead bury my face in the crook of his neck. His skin is hot and damp and reflects my still heated panting back across my face. It's hard to inhale the thick humidity trapped between us. There's no oxygen here, no clarity. My forehead's pressed against his jaw, my nose against his throat, and my lips against his pulse. His fingers tangle in the sweaty hair at the back of my head, and he kneads the muscles at the base of my skull.

I wish he wouldn't tell me. I wish he'd stop. More than either though, I wish he didn't believe he meant it.

He tugs at my hair. It's almost playful. "Quatre…?" he whispers. The illusion of naming is well past and I resent my name this time he says it, and again I envy him his lack of one. I can't remove Quatre any more than I can remove my scars, but the difference is I did not choose _Quatre_ ; it was chosen for me, like so many other things. I cannot even claim the randomness of my DNA or any genuine individuality. I was manufactured _in vitro_ to be Quatre—I can be nothing else. The liberty to choose myself was taken away from me before conception. The design and expectations of being Quatre dog me even here, here where I want so much to just be…to simply exist: to breathe, to feel, to sense, before the opportunity is lost forever.

This goal is as elusive as always, and I ignore his repeated soft plea. If I lift my head now, I shall meet his gaze. I won't be able to break away, and the intimacy will flay my unsteady and thin resolve. I'll cry and I may even beg him to stay. But stay for what? I can't give him any more than this, no matter how much I may want to.

He has told me it's a choice I make, but he's wrong. In this—our pantomime of love—Trowa is like a child. Weary and worn in other ways, it is here he keeps a haven for blind faith and naive hope. I hate that I cannot fulfill them, but I find some solace that the world hasn't ground his spirit to dust. That's why I still want to be able to come to him, I guess. It's like a renewal in a way. And soon he'll be gone and I'll have nothing to break me away from myself even temporarily. I'll drown.

"Stop thinking," he says. His hands release my hair and meander to my shoulder blades. He massages my upper back firmly, forcing more air from my lungs—air I still can't seem to retrieve.

I lift and turn my head a fraction, seeking a draught of clear, cool air to fill my lungs. I draw my breath across his chest. My eyes open and the world jitters and tilts for a moment before stabilising. His body is out of focus at this proximity. Under his hands I shift and bend my neck, angling my head to fix my gaze on the blurry shape of a nipple.

I reorient my perception of time by counting the rise and fall of Trowa's chest as seconds. As his breaths slow, so does my sense of external time. But my mind is still busy and working on its own accelerated clock. "I can't," I admit.

'This,' he said earlier.

I want this too. Not the recursive tangle of my own reflection, but this simple closeness with Trowa. But I am no closer to understanding how to be here, in this place—in this state— than I've ever been. And that is when the isolation catches me. The loneliness never finds me like this when I am alone. It's when I'm with Trowa that it seizes me, suffocating and impenetrable. I am as remote and unknowable to Trowa as he is to me. As anyone is to any other person. We try to be close. We talk, we laugh, we fuck, and we tell each other lies about love. There is an illusion of intimacy gained for moments, sometimes it seems to last for hours, days, and I think for some lucky few, the illusion can persist for years, a lifetime even. But it is all, all of it illusory. Real intimacy, those moments when you know you've been understood or truly seen—or have understood and seen another as the individual he is—with the whole of his perfections and imperfections together—that never lasts more than the time it takes a hummingbird to flap its wings.

I disentangle myself from Trowa; the drying sweat and semen between us hinders our parting. I smile at him as he lets go of me.

"Try," he whispers, and I feel his gaze steady on me as I make my way down the hall to the bathroom.

Everything in Trowa's bathroom is beige: the tiles, the walls, the toilet, the sink, the shower, the shower curtain—even the soap. I grab a beige towel from under the sink and turn on the shower. I use the toilet while the cold water bleeds from the pipes. For several minutes after I see stream start creeping over the top of the shower rod though, I just sit, hesitating in some irrational moment of regret. This may be the last time, the last time I wash sex with Trowa from my body.

Maybe it's only an illusion to _me_. Perhaps I am the one incapable of understanding love or intimacy. It seems somewhat mystical and superstitious to me to wonder, but I do nevertheless wonder if it's due to the mode of my creation. Can a boy grown in glass possess a human soul like others? Especially a boy born of glass in Space. I have no vital connection to anything truly alive. No womb nurtured me, nor sun, nor earth, nor wind.

But Trowa… Nameless, homeless Trowa knows himself, and that he comes from life and love. Adrift though he is, he is who he is utterly and infallibly. He owns himself even as he continually discovers and rediscovers his Self. It's a strange dichotomy.

I shower slowly and with care to memorise this cleansing. Even as I wash away the evidence of our joining, I immerse myself in Trowa anew, the scents of his shampoo and soap are embedded within all my memories of him since the war. It's good, I think, that he's going back to Earth, back to his family. I am happy for him that he has those things in his life now. Catherine has given him what I could not.

I lose my momentary, hated tears in the shower spray. He still affects me too much. I have to let go. Catherine is right. It'd be easier for both of us if I could. I don't even know what it is I hold onto now, what it is the loss of which grieves me. Is it yet another youthful dream? Another misapprehension of destiny? I always thought we'd somehow, someway, regardless of all other things have some kind of life together. It's hard for me to acknowledge the imminent change. Perhaps I'm still too young to understand that life is ever disappointing in its mutability. When I was fifteen, everything seemed eternal and perfect. Eight years later, it is simply _real_.

And this real life is neither the life I expected nor wanted. My chest hurts and my head aches. I turn off the water and dry myself. There's a thin white robe hanging on the back of the door; I put it on. It's soft and clings to my skin where it is still damp. I fold my towel in half and hang it over the shower rail to dry.

When I exit the bathroom, I smell burned cheese. We forgot about the gratin.

I find Trowa back in the kitchen, wearing his boxers, a pair of puffy blue gingham pot mitts, and absolutely nothing else. He stands there, staring (perhaps even glaring) at the gratin, which sits, smoking, atop the stove. Its surface is an even, black crust, and it smells even worse up close—a casualty of our lovemaking. It's such a bizarre tableau of domesticity. I want to laugh, but my body is too contrary. Instead the ache in my head seeps into my eyes and my vision blurs. I make a choking noise, and Trowa turns to face me. I brace myself against the refrigerator, grit my teeth, and blink furiously.

"It's only dinner," he attempts with a crooked grin.

I let out a laugh that sounds like a sob. "I'm going to miss you." 

The grin turns to a sad little smile. Trowa moves close and embraces me. He's hard and warm and familiar, and he smells good, and I don't want to think about it anymore.

"So much," I say, and sniff back my tears.

Trowa rubs my back with his pot mitted hands. "If you want me to stay—"

"No—"

"—just _tell_ me, Quatre."

I'm tempted, so tempted, but I stop myself from even considering asking him to stay, for I know that I want him to be free far more than I want him to stay. "You know I can't."

He sighs. "I didn't think so."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs; it's not in acceptance of my apology, but in resignation to it. "Visit me sometime, huh?"

"Yeah," I say, "and I'll write."

"I'll write back if you do."

"Okay."

"Okay."

  


**the end**


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